I am more like
a surreal painting,
a Balkan allegro, an ivory
lotus looming
against a vantablack sky.
I fall in love with the world, and I
only do that deliriously and rhapsodically,
or I break, and
when I break, you cannot
hear things crumble.
I break the way
colors do
in Harlequin's Carnival.
Deafeningly silent.
And I am more
like a contorted twig
silhouetted against a blank path,
a requiem heard from afar
close to nowhere,
the withered orange of
leaves in pursuit.
